Cunningham walked directly to the right front corner, where the windows looked out toward the church. He pointed to a broken pane shoulder high and two rows in from the wall. “Took the shot through here. See the smudges in the dust here? Him setting his feet. Right-handed. His toes are pointing east. No tread in the tracks, though. Probably wearing booties over his shoes, like they do in the hospital. Didn’t want to leave us prints.”
“So he sticks his gun out the window there?”
“Rifle, Lynch. Guns are artillery. No, not out the window. Smart boy like this, he’s standing back a couple of steps. Shoots through the hole. Almost like a silencer — traps most of the sound in the room here.”
“That’s why he’s in this back section, not up front by the houses? Quieter?”
“Most likely. Brass balls, though, giving up another fifty meters just to cut down on noise nobody’s gonna be able to place anyway. Get crime scene to check the window here, probably get some residue.” Cunningham taking up a shooting position again, frowning a little.
“What time she get hit? Around 3 o’clock, wasn’t it?”
“Quarter after.”
“So why this side of the room? OK, this whole face of the building is in shadow because of the step-back layout, but why not tuck back in against the west wall? Be even darker over there. Could even brace against the wall if he wanted to.”
“Really matter?”
“This kind of shooting, everything matters. It’s like a math problem. For each tactical situation, there is one best answer. So far, everything adds up. This wing to cut down on the noise. Also, it’s shaded that time of day. He’s two doors from the stairwell on the east end. Close enough to get out quick, far enough away that he’s got a little time if he hears anyone coming up. Also, look around in here. Less shit in here than in a lot of the rooms. Not a popular spot for some reason, and, trust me, our boy ain’t looking to win no popularity contests. So why does he get all that right and pick the wrong side of the room. Maybe that window was already busted, he didn’t want to risk the noise breaking another one.”
Lynch walked over, looked at the window, shook his head. “He picked the pane, broke it himself. Most of the rooms we’ve been in, if there’s broken glass, it’s in here. Kids throwing rocks through the windows from the outside. This one was broken from the inside. Glass that’s left is flexed out. Fresh break, too. When he broke it, he knocked the dust off, hasn’t built back up yet.”
Cunningham nodded, taking up his shooter’s stance again. “Gotta be a reason he picked this side of the room.” Cunningham walked along the wall of windows, looking at the floor.
“He’s firing a semi-auto, not a bolt action. Worried about his brass. See over here, this gap between the wall and the floor? Brass could get down in there, maybe he can’t get it back. So he gets close to the east wall. Brass comes out, hits the wall, it’s right there. No gap. You’re looking for a right-handed guy shoots a semi-auto. He’s under six foot, probably military or ex-military, probably a white guy.”
“How’d you know his height?”
“Me? I’m six-four. I’d take out the bottom of the next pane up. He took out the top half of this pane — six inches down. Five-eight to five-ten, I figure. Ex-military because of the time and training it takes to shoot like this. I went into the Corps at eighteen, Lynch. Scout/sniper at twenty. Did that for twenty years. Been on the job here now another ten. Police don’t train much for shots at seven hundred meters. We can get closer than that. Now, you’re out crawling the brush in your ghillie suit worrying about a combat patrol stepping on your ass, seven hundred meters could be as close as you get.”
“Seems like you’re channeling this guy, Cunningham.”
“I understand what he’s thinking.”
“Scaring me a little.”
“Scaring me a little, too.”
Back at their cars, they shook hands.
“Interesting few hours, Cunningham, I gotta say. Thanks.”
“No problem. You get the ballistics, give me a call. Number of grooves, left twist, right twist — might narrow the weapon down some.”
“Will do.” Lynch walked toward his car, then turned.
“Hey, Cunningham. You said a white guy. Why a white guy?”
Cunningham smiled. “Lynch, I spent twenty years in the Corps hanging out with snipers. Lotta backwoods types, dirt farmers, hillbillies. I want to run for president of the Afro-American Snipers Association, only vote I know I got to get is my own.” Cunningham opened the door to the Jeep, then stopped, turned back one more time. “Besides, Lynch, you’ve seen the NBA. Always you white boys who want to shoot from the outside.”
First time all day Lynch had seen Cunningham smile.
CHAPTER 8 — CHICAGO
Lynch drove back to the Marslovak house, wanting to give it a closer look. Typical Chicago bungalow, red brick, built in the Twenties or Thirties. Helen Marslovak had lived there the last fifty-two years of her life. In that time, Lynch thought, she should have accumulated more shit.
Place smelled of soap. Murphy’s Oil Soap. Just like his mom’s house. Living room across the front — parlor she’d called it. White sofa along one wall, one big chair. Sofa and chair looked pretty old. Coffee table, end table — those were newer. Big Zenith console set. That was ancient. Lynch hit the on button, saw the white dot in the center of the screen start to grow, listened to the hum, saw the orange glow of the vacuum tubes through the vented cover in the rear. Took him back. Jesus, where’d she still get tubes for it? Flicked it off just as the picture filled in and the sound started. Big Bible on the coffee table, the leather-bound kind with the family tree page in the front where you could fill in all the communions and weddings and such.
Dining room — table, six chairs, sideboard, built-in corner hutch, some dishes there. White cabinets in the kitchen. Not much food. Not much anything. Floors clean enough to do surgery on.
Just the bed and the dresser in the master bedroom, bed perfectly made. Wedding photo on the dresser. Helen had been a looker back in the day, a little Hedy Lamarr vibe going. Another Bible, smaller one, pages and cover pretty worn. Crucifix over the bed.
A number of old pictures lined the hall outside the bedroom. The husband, mostly. Even one of him with Hurley the First, the mayor’s grandfather, the first Hurley to stake out the fifth floor at City Hall. He’d ridden his Southside Irish Bridgeport connections to the top prize back in 1952. Hurley the Third had the fifth floor now. Better than fifty years in the Hurley line and no end in sight.
Couple of pictures of Eddie Sr in his hard hat. Blue, with the city seal on it. Streets and Sanitation guy. Picture of Eddie Sr in his Knights of Columbus getup, with the cape and the Three Musketeers hat. Picture of Eddie Sr with the Cardinal. Eddie looking older in the last two, Lynch betting the ALS had already kicked in before the last one was taken.
Bedroom in the back must have been Eddie Jr’s. Old Cubs pennant on the wall, picture of Ernie Banks. Bears’ spread on the bed. Picture on the dresser, Eddie maybe thirty years and ninety pounds ago, standing in a football uniform. Scrapbook. Lynch picked it up. Eddie as a baby. Eddie holding up a fish on a pier somewhere. First Communion picture, Eddie and the parents standing on the steps where Lynch had seen the body. Graduation shots, high school and college. Wedding shots — all three wives. First one with the tux, the next two just suit and tie. Newspaper clippings. Eddie making partner at Morgan Stanley twenty years ago. Eddie setting up his own shop. Eddie yukking it up with the current Hurley at some ribbon cutting. Eddie throwing out a first pitch at Comiskey — the old one. Mom was prouder than she let on, prouder than Eddie knew.
An old desk was tucked into a corner in the hallway. Lynch went through it. Checking papers — bank statements, insurance policies, satisfaction of mortgage on the house. All of it pretty vanilla, nothing there. Lynch found a three-hundred-sheet spiral notebook in the center drawer, black cover. A sort of journal, Helen Marslovak’s account of her illness. The diagnosis back in October. Metastasized colon cancer. Deciding pretty much right off not to fight it — no chemo, no surgery — docs having told her there wasn’t much point. Writing about the pain with a kind of gratitude, thankful to know it was coming, to have a chance to put her soul in order. No self-pity that Lynch could sense.